In a land where there’s pretty people on every corner, on ever newstand, on every tv set, Sandra just doesn’t stand out. She’s not pretty – she’s more, cute. If that. Dark hair that’s almost mousy, even with the blond highlights, plain features unmarked by makeup, glasses, and a figure that’s just this side of healthy. Not plump, no, but not stick thin either.
Course, one thing she’s got that does make her stand out, is the breeding under her skin. For all she’s unremarkable, her blood tells other tales.
She’s walking down the street, a bag carrying her laptop over one shoulder, as well as the straps of a backpack carrying her books. Least the drizzling rain stopped.
[Nora Jonsdottir]
Let it not be said that Nora wasn’t perceptive. Imogen had been plucked out almost as quickly as she had set her darker blue eyes on Nora. Her face is absent of make-up, which makes her skin seem far more fair and much younger. Palms lift and smooth her hair back – you know, the fine baby hairs that want to curl slightly around your ears and the hairline formed along the line of your forehead. Nora’s eyes are unmistakable blue. Pale blue like a clear Nordic morning sky. She’s watching Imogen approach, watching her direction firm and not waver from a path that leads directly towards her.
A nod is given in greeting, though it is much more regal and refined than the trademark ‘chin-up’ the Eagles all inherited from their pack Alpha. “Imogen. It’s a pleasure, I’m Nora.” Nora. The irrefutable cause of much trouble and tribulation among the Eagles – or if she is not the cause or source she rekindled a fire that was slow burning, picked at a scab that had not yet healed.
[Imogen Slaughter]
“A pleasure,” Imogen echoes, more for the sake of society than for a genuine joy at meeting the girl’s acquaintence. The redhead is older than Nora, though it’s hard to gauge the woman’s exact age; good skin, slight height are all markers for youth. Something gives it away at the eyes, however, or perhaps it is simply the way poise matures with each passing year.
If Imogen catches the stigma associated with the Fenrir kin’s name, she gives no sign of it. She glances away, and down the sidewalk; Sandra is visible, but not recognized. A hit off her cigarette; her head turns away to exhale it, letting the smoke catch in the wind, disappate with the breeze.
Introductions done, there is very little to say. Small talk is not one of Imogen’s more fruitful past-times.
Finally, wry: “I tend t’try and introduce mysel’ before I pull my gun,” a brief, and simple reference to the night with John Smith. A smirk twitches at her mouth, barely a spasm, and then stills. “But things don’t always work out tha’ way.”
[Sandra Davenport]
She keeps walking, conveniently toward Imogen and Nora, aiming for the bus bench just past them, like as not. Least she doesn’t get lost as much as she did when she first arrived in Chicago last year. Now it’s just braving the cold, the not so cold, and the ever blowing winds to get where she’s headed.
[Nora Jonsdottir]
Truth be told it was not one of Nora’s strong suits either. She was an alien among girls her own age, so removed from their society that she no longer knew how to fit in or what it meant to be eighteen. One arm draws over her torso to hook onto her other arm at the elbow, a guarded position if one was schooled in the small nuances of body language. Though that may be the only insight to anything unspoken about Nora. She kept herself to herself, and rarely was anyone allowed to be a party to the more private situations and events in her life.
Imogen speaks and Nora smiles, an edge of tension melting away with the slow half-smile dawning across her lips. A pause, a beat or two if that, pass before she replies, “Well…it’s good for me that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way…” Her voice is accented in the sing song of perhaps Danish. Blue eyes light on Sandra and Nora watches her for a moment, long enough to not seem rude.
[Molly Campbell]
Cool and cloudy as the night is, the wet air has yet to translate the sharp promise of rain from possibility to reality. With the end of daylight savings time, the November days have a compact quality, rectangular, perhaps, neatly shaped, the boundaries remade just for the coming winter. Some half-dozen shops on the street – still open to catch late-working professionals and the tail end of the restaurant crowds ducking into the streets to wander open, but assuredly, closing soon – have begun decorating for the coming “holiday season” – for all that election day has just passed.
This is not one of the Chicago streets with a bike lane; but there is a bike on the street – powered by human legs rather than an internal combustion engine. Bundled as she is – in a windproof anorak – against the cold and the threat of rain, her figure misshapen by the heavy burden of a canvas wrapped messenger bag cinched tightly against the aforementioned anorak, the bulk balanced against her back rather than swinging – unbalanced – against her thigh, she is unrecognizeable.
Dr. Slaughter, however, is distinctive enough to draw the eye. The cyclist passes by the oddly paired Imogen and Nora, her head turning to track them, then draws her bicycle in sharply four carlengths down and slides off the bike, walking it between two parked cars, then onto and back up the sidewalk toward them. As she walks, she thumbs the drawstring on the hood of her anorak, loosening it enough to slide the hood from the crown of her head.
[Imogen Slaughter]
The smile is not returned – though it is acknowledged, with a flicker of dark blue eyes, a drop of her gaze to Nora’s mouth, then up again. Imogen is a woman of slight height – outgrown by many well developed thirteen year olds. This is a fact that is easy to forget, when faced with her direct gaze, her carefully schooled expression. Imogen does not act small – so it is harder to term her as such.
“Is it?” the question is rhetorical.
Molly is unrecognizeable, and thus barely acknowledged until she begins to approach. Her eyes narrow in the Silver Fang’s direction, the expression easing as the girl pushes back her hood. “Molly,” said when Ms. Campbell is within speaking range.
A glance toward Nora, quick, “Have you two met?”
[Nora Jonsdottir]
“Well, when the other option is your side arm…” Her smile fades a fraction of an inch as Imogen addresses Molly. She had been adjusting her attention between Sandra and Imogen, now she shifts it in three directions though the hooded woman owns the better portion of the three way split. One arm is still hooked onto the other at the elbow even though a fine smatter of gooseflesh has arose on her bare arms. From the small device on her hip the earbuds hang and the faint sound of music drifts. As an afterthought Nora reaches down and pauses it.
“I don’t…think so.” She replies to Imogen’s query.
[Sandra Davenport]
It is likely that a scene like this plays out thousands of times a day for Sandra. It only takes a glance up to take in the women before her – pretty all, of course – and she folds her coat closer around her not exactly thin but a bit on the healthier side with a good appetite figure and she seems to draw into her shell a bit more. As she gets close, a faint smile is offered, and she keeps right on going.
[Molly Campbell]
“Dr. Slaughter,” Molly’s greeting is warmer than Imogen’s; she favors the physician with a quick twist of her mouth – the expression is not tentative, but it is spare, somehow; it is not strained, but it is finely boned. It matches her voice, which takes on a private tone. “I have some – I have some things for you.” The streetlights glitter, reflected in her dark eyes as they lift to follow the track of Imogen’s gaze toward Nora.
Her smile does not fade; instead, it sobers, leaving her shapely mouth to assume its natural curve. “We’ve not met,” Molly remarks, her voice lower as she draws herself (and her bicycle) into the circle of their conversation. Her gaze remains fixed on Nora for a several moments longer, searching for recognition: when it comes, it opens – clear – on her face and sparks in her eyes. ” – but I saw you at the meeting.” Her hair sizzles with static electricity, clinging to the hood as it falls away.
[Imogen Slaughter]
Molly has some things for Imogen. Imogen offers the faintest lightening of her expression. “Brilliant,” she says – and if there had been any doubt as to her motherland, there was very little now. ‘Brilliant’ is not used in America except in reference to lighting and diamonds.
“Molly Campbell, Nora Jonsdottir.” The introduction is sparse, almost non-existant. Imogen’s eyes lift to Sandra, briefly as she passes, fades away as she turns her attention back to the two before her.
Her attention flicks back to Molly, “I presume this is something I will need explained.” Science was a long time ago. A tilt of her head toward the cafe in suggestion.
[Imogen Slaughter]
ooc: Sorry about the delays, all. I realized I was starving and went to make some dinner, and then also realized my cats were starting to consider cannibalism, and had to deal with that, too.
[Sandra Davenport]
Jonsdottir. That brings her attention around again, focusing on Nora, with open curiosity written across her face.
[Nora Jonsdottir]
“Yes….yes we did meet at the meeting.” Nora nods in confirmation. Blue eyes regard Molly for a long, studious moment before they look away and flicker over Sandra, then back to Imogen. “It was nice to meet you Imogen…Molly…” She nods to both women, a faint curve up touching one side of her mouth. “I really should be going…I’m starting to catch a chill.” With that she takes two steps back and out of the small circle of conversation the trio had created.
[Nora Jonsdottir]
(sorry got caught up cleaning off my computer desk :P)
[Molly Campbell]
“Hi Nora,” rather forthrightly, Molly unhooks her right hand from the strap of her messenger bag (the strap loosened, the bag is visible now against her hip: a drab olive green, well worn, decorated with a half-dozen buttons, including: VOTE and If your aren’t OUTraged, you haven’t been paying attention. and THINK) and offers it to Nora, in greeting, before the girl makes her excuses and steps away. She’s wearing gloves , Molly – leather ones, the fingertips cut off for maximum maneuverability; there is no fashion statement inherent in the garment. In fact: Molly makes no fashion statements, in her mudspattered hiking boots, her worn khakis, her nylon anorak, she makes no statements beyond the practical.
She follows the slant of Imogen’s nod toward the cafe. “I doubt you need it explained, but I’m happy to do it. I could use some tea, anyway.” With that, Molly walks her bike over to a convenient bike rack just outside the dark doors, chaining it in place, double and then triple checking the lock before she is satisfied enough to step inside the cafe.
ck
[Nora Jonsdottir]
(I gotta head out for a bit guys – thanks for the play!)
[Imogen Slaughter]
“Good night, Nora,” a glance toward the blonde, before Imogen follows Molly toward the cafe. “My treat,” said absently toward the girl. It would be hard to see it as kindness, when offered in such an offhand manner. It is almost an exchange. Molly’s help for tea and food.
The door swings shut behind them as the two enter the cafe.
(and I must sleep, too. So. uh. *slaps pause*)
[Molly Campbell]
(pause!)
[Sandra Davenport]
She trips over her own feet, realizes she was staring. So with an embarrassed flush, she quickly makes her way toward the bus stop bench and sits, to wait for her bus.
[Imogen Slaughter]
(( Night!))
[Sandra Davenport]
(Night!)